Just as found footage documented the unfortunate demise of three obnoxious film students in "The Blair Witch Project," our demented band of covert ninja spies has discovered a diary of pure Christmas terror to rival the icy dread of Baby Party. Found in a blood-stained apartment in Manhattan's Turtle Bay, the following journal documents a diabolical series of Christmas tribulations that haven't been seen since Wal-mart ran out of Tickle-Me Elmos. Below, witness the terror of the most dastardly acts of Yule Tide treachery ever recorded. Read at your own peril:
Day 1: Dear Diary, what a wonderful evening. My true love (I can call him that now that he tested negative of all major STD's), treated me to an evening so romantic! Opera and a carriage ride. I'll remember it forever. At the end of our date he had me cover my eyes for a "surprise." I was certain he was going to give me a cruise to Aruba and a new pair of Uggs (I've only been dropping hints for six months now, LOL). Instead, he presented me with an odd looking bird and a fruit plant. I was disappointed not to have my new Uggs, but he swears there's more where that came from. What a darling he is!!
Day 2: Dear Diary, I had a lovely evening playing putt-putt with my true love, after which he gave me a gift of two pigeons and another one of those odd looking birds in a fruit tree. I suspect he's over-estimated my fondness for birds. Yet again, he swore there were more gifts in store. Come on, cruise to Aruba! Mamma wants a new pair of Uggs!!
Day 3: Dear Diary, had surf and turf at the Olive Garden with my TL. It was nice enough, although my salad was slightly wilted. After sharing a rather too rich chocolate torte, he had the waiters bring out three chickens. He said they were French, but a chicken is a chicken is a chicken, in my book. Then he gave me two more pigeons and yet another odd looking bird in a tree. I told him I loved the birds but they're starting to poop on my furniture. And I have more pears than I know what to do with. I want a cruise to Aruba. And some Uggs. Quit playing games, dude.
Day 4: Dear Diary, saw the new Sandra Bullock movie with TL. It was boring. I hate Sandra Bullock. She looks trashy. Any-who, TL gave me four new birds that won't shut up, three more French chickens, two more pigeons and ANOTHER retarded bird sitting on a fruit plant. Maybe he's joking. Maybe he's toying with me. I have a headache.
Day 5: Dear Diary, TL took me to a tractor-pull in Scranton. Hated it. Afterwards, sensing my foul mood, he gave me five beautiful 24 carat gold pinky rings! From Cartier! I love them! Then he had to spoil it by giving me four more chatty-cathy birds, three more frog hens, two additional pigeons and ANOTHER retarded fruit bird. My kitty cat Mr. Purr-fect Pants is acting nervous. Where are my f*cking Uggs?
Day 6: Dear Diary, what's-his-name cooked manwhiches and we ate them while watching CSI Miami (is it just me or is David Caruso really creepy?). During the commercial break he gave me six gooses. When I screamed in horror, they all pooped eggs onto my Martha Stewart "floral explosion" area rug. Noticing my displeasure, he promptly gave me another five gold pinky rings (how many pinkies does he think I have?), four additional loud-mouth birds, three smelly-ass French chickens, two more pigeons and another goddamned retarded bird in a fruit tree. Is he aware that my lease only allows one cat or one dog?? I think he sensed my displeasure, because he promised his gifts are going to get better. I want to go to Aruba. I want some Uggs. Now.
Day 7: Hey Diary. Okay so today we split a chalupa and played ping-pong. When he brought me home at the end of our date, I was shocked to find seven f*cking swans in my bath tub. Besides the swans, I now have twelve excitable geese, fifteen gold rings, fourteen of those loud-ass birds (two of them were decapitated when they flew into my ceiling fan), five of those snotty french chickens (I sold ten to my local butcher), nine pigeons (Mr. Purr-fect Pants has killed three) and seven asshole partridges sitting in seven fruit trees. I've had to hire stanley steamers twice this week. I found bird poop in my cheerios this morning. I'm never going to Aruba. Jesus, why can't a nice girl like me just get a new pair of Uggs for your birthday? I've decided I'm going to break up with TL tomorrow. He's working my nerves.
Day 8: Yo Diary. Went to the mall and had a small Orange Julius with TL. I told him it wasn't working out, that I needed some space. He just smiled and said I'm going to need even more space soon. I called him a butt-wipe and ran home, only to find eight farm bitches milking goats in my kitchen. There are now twelve swans in my bath tub. I have eighteen geese laying eggs in my living room. Twenty f*cking pinky rings. Seventeen loud-ass birds (one of those goat bitches killed one when it was squawking on her milk stool and she sat on it), six french chickens (last night I had a hankering for McNuggets), eleven goddamned pigeons and eight asshole partridges on eight ass-licking fruit plants. Why is he doing this to me? I've decided to call my friend Patsy who works at the Police precinct and run a background check on TL. I think he might be mental.
Day 9: Dairy. Wassup. Bad day. Came home from work today to find an eviction notice on my door. Went to hang up my coat and there were nine bitches in my closet doing the macarena. Almost gave me a heart attack. There are now sixteen milk whores in my kitchen surrounded by a growing pile of goat poo. I have twenty-one swans in my crapper, two-dozen geese laying eggs all over my new couch, twenty-five pinky rings, and twenty chatty-cathy birds. The butcher took all but one of the french chickens today, but I now have fourteen pigeons (although I've taken up training them to be carriers, it's more fun than sudoku), and eight partridges in pear trees (turns out partridge fricassee tastes good on toast). Oh and Patsy from the precinct said that TL has done this before. Many times. Two of his exes committed suicide. One became a nun and nine formed their own Roller Derby team in Tuscaloosa. It's all to much to cope with. P.S. I made a quiche tonight using goat milk, goose eggs and pears. Wasn't half bad. I want my Uggs.
Day 10: Oh yeah. Diary. You again. Here's the latest count: eighteen whores doing the macarena in my hall closet. Two dozen goat-milking sluts in my kitchen. Twenty-six swans in my loo (I traded two of them to a budding taxidermist friend for a bottle of Frangelico). Twenty-eight geese in my living room (the goat sluts cooked two of them for dinner last night). Four hundred goose eggs in my refrigerator. Thirty pinky rings. Two dozen calling birds (I wish they're shut their yaps). Zero french chickens (I promised butcher three more tomorrow), sixteen pigeons (ten of which show real promise for carrying notes, it's even more fun than texting), and ten f*cking partridges and ten asshole pear trees. Oh, and I now have ten dudes in tights jumping and prancing about in my bedroom like a bunch of homos. Good times. On the upside, Whole Foods put in an order for 100 goat milk, goose egg and pear quiches. And I'm selling them for 10 bucks a pop! Ker-ching!! Come on, Aruba! Woooo!!!
Day 11: Yo Diary, bitch. When I was getting ready to head to work, TL texted me and said "carpools are car-cool!" I went out to find eleven stinky dudes playing panpipes in my Prius. When I got home there were twenty-seven macarena sluts mounting an assault against the thirty-two milk whores while twenty leaping homos were having an ass-sex orgy on my tempurpedic bed. There are thirty-four geese in my living room, 600 goose eggs in my fridge, thirty five Cartier pinky rings, and twenty-eight calling birds (I hate them). On the bright side, butcher took every french hen and my pigeons have been old-style spamming every bakery on the east coast, and orders for my goat milk, goose egg and pear quiches are going through the roof! I can't find my kitty cat Mr. Purr-fect Pants anywhere. Hope he's okay.
Day 12: Diary. Dude. Worst. Day. Ever. It started off well enough, when I pawned my forty cartier pinky rings for a pair of Uggs and a cruise to Aruba. It quickly went downhill from there. Twelve dudes playing bongos are taking turns date-raping the thirty-six macarena whores while forty milk sluts have gone on the warpath against the thirty leaping homos who stole the goats for a bestiality orgy in my bedroom (note to self, buy new sheets). The swans gave bird flu to the geese and butcher is suing me because the french hens gave his customers salmonella. I was arrested on charges of animal cruelty (I thought killing the partridges in the microwave was merciful and instantaneous, swear to God), hiring non-documented workers (I never paid those milk whores a cent), running a prostitution ring (who knew the macarena sluts were whoring themselves?), creating a nuisance to public health (turns out most of my goat milk/goose egg/pear quiches were infected with e coli by all that goat poop, resulting in the deaths of three people in Buffalo), and harboring known terrorists, as thirteen of the twenty-two dudes playing panpipes in my prius trained with Al Qaeda in Pakistan. My carrier pigeons (apparently they're actually "turtle doves," whoop-de-friggin-do) were all sucked into the engine of a 747, causing 257 people to perish in a gruesome, cartwheeling ball of fire. But as serendipity would have it, my true love was on board, intent on hijacking the plane to Aruba with bombs in his Uggs.
Jesus sez: "It is more blessed to give than receive, but it's freakin BITCHIN to subscribe to this blog's feed."